Worlds End In Whimpers

Title: Worlds End In Whimpers [2/?]
Pair: Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy
Rating: R
Feedback: 'Tis food for the soul ~

A/N: Wow, I live! Dreadfully sorry for the long wait, and though I wish I could promise that it wont happen again, that would be a lie. You can take comfort in that fact that I'm in love with this story though, and therefore very unlikely to give it up.

A/N x2: Apparently my previous disclaimer was no good, hopefully this one is better.

A/N x3: Thank you all for the reviews! I wont be replying to them individually unfortunately, on accounta it's a bit of a space-hog, but don't you think for a moment that I don't appreciate them ~

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Despite his activities of earlier that night, sleep remained elusive - more of a light doze than any real, revitalizing rest - and Harry awoke with silver-gold spiderwebs entangling his thoughts. His limbs were reluctant to move, it felt as though he had performed some great exertion and was just then paying for it. A ridiculous notion, as the fight the night prior had been routine at best, and - and the visit to the brothel had been ... eventless.

Or at least, Harry could believe that, were he blind, deaf and dumb.

Perched on the edge of his bed, Harry muffled a groan in his palms, hunching forward over his knees. This was somehow that whore's fault, and Harry knew it. He also knew that there was no possible way for him to get anything done with his mind so splintered, and that - that was unacceptable. He had accepted long ago that this lifestyle would last until he died, and whether that was sooner or later he wasn't particularly concerned, and it took no days off; it didn't understand the concept of 'sick days' or 'psychological duress'. No, all it concerned itself with was Harry's making of his own, self-imposed quota.

And that was that, as far as Harry was concerned: he would have to pay that same whorehouse another visit as soon as the opportunity arose. Later today, tonight.

The effect was immediate and palpable, Harry felt his mind clear and his muscles unknit. Calm settled over his mind like a blanket. It felt nice to have a plan, a course of action - from Harry's experience, one was far more likely to succeed when following a path, regardless of whether the path was followed directly.

With a grunt and the alarming crackle of joints and bone, Harry stretched his arms up over his head, tilting first to the right, then the left. He briefly considered simply spelling away his aches and pains, before deeming that unnecessary - that was what potions were for, after all. In the nightstand to the left of Harry's bed, under a false-bottom and covered in shredded gauze, were a variety of potions for near any ailment, both magical and non. Reaching out with his mind, tendrils of quicksilver magical essence curling and writhing like serpentine fingers, Harry carded through the nightstand's contents, frowning at the number of empties. He would have to restock soon. Thankfully, near the back, hidden by a trio of empty tubs of Scaradicate Salve, was the potion for which Harry was looking.

Magic took the bottle in hand, magic shook it loose from its confines. Before the bottle of Pain Numbing Potion could reach Harry's hand, the cap had been unscrewed and discarded, and in three long pulls its contents were drained. The bitter liquid should have burned Harry's throat, but he was numbed to its unpleasantness, just as his body was soon numbed to its pain.

Feeling infinitely better, Harry got to his feet. He thought, not for the first time, that it might be in his best interest to change rooms, houses even. Start fresh. It wasn't like he needed all the space - all the empty space, swarming with the ghosts of and love and dreams and hope. But he knew, just as he always did, that that was simply not an option; despite the lack of love, dreams and hope the house now boasted, Harry didn't think he could bear to part with the memories.

So, he trooped across the room and dug through his dresser; nothing too formal, of course, but still presentable to the general public - he did have to work. Settling on a pair of black jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a pair of nondescript black socks, Harry entered the obscenely large bathroom and changed, using the location choice to take care of his bladder, morning breath, and two day stubble almost simultaneously. Staring at the spot on the wall where the mirror should have been, Harry raked his fingers through the dreadful tangle that was his hair three times before deeming it acceptable. Of course, he had not a clue what he looked like - he hadn't for a while - but as long as his presence still brought appreciative stares rather than disgusted, he figured all was well.

By the time Harry found his way to the kitchen, he was wide awake and primed to face the day. With a plate of hot, fresh from the wand eggs and sausage in front of him, perched on his favourite stool, Harry sat at the detached island portion of his kitchen, watching the morning news with a sense of dull satisfaction. On the screen, an attractive female news anchor reported another in the series of murders that had London in an uproar.

" ... A Mr. Charles Dimpley was found dead in an alley early this morning; the cause seems to have been severe blunt force trauma, followed by mild exsanguination. As with the murders prior, the culprit has left no clue as to his or her identity. The questions on everyone's minds are: who is this 'Hollow Man', where will he strike next, and - should we really stop him? ... "

With a satisfied grunt, Harry flicked the television off. That was all he needed to hear. Of course the incompetent police force had no leads - Harry wasn't some mindless, sightless brute. He had finesse, he had style - he had a mission, and no damnable muggle police chief was going to keep him from his goal. Mild exsanguination? Harry could have laughed. He had bled the bastard dry, taking utmost pleasure from his weak struggle, stood back and watched as the light from those child raping eyes fled. By now, Harry was sure, that light had been relocated to somewhere considerably warmer, if one believed in things like retribution and hell. Harry did, the thought of a heaven for the innocent was the only thing keeping him sane these days.

For the following two hours, Harry retreated back to his room and study, poring distractedly over ancient texts and practicing intricate wandwork with his favoured wand. Like an old friend their presences melded to one, it beating a steady rhythm into Harry's palm, mimicking that of his own heart.

At nine-thirty sharply, Harry rose, bundled himself into a moderately heavy coat, and ventured the blustery London autumn. It was hard to believe that the relatively warm months of summer had already slipped by; scarcely a leaf had yet to fall from the boughs of trees and bushes alike, though their veins were tinted with a sickly yellow, warning of the winter frost to come. The weather, however, had wasted no time in showing its approval for the colder season, sending gale after gale of frigid air down on poor, unsuspecting citizens, causing vendors to pack up their wares that had previously rambled out onto the sidewalk, and young children to gaze up at the slate gray clouds, hoping for snow.

As it was, the streets were empty. The gray of the clouds echoed around Harry as he made his solitary way down an empty street, hands buried in his pockets and face downturned against the wind. It would have been simpler to just Apparate, and had it at all been an option Harry would have grasped it emphatically and without thought. Though admittedly, the walk wasn't that long.

Within minutes Harry had arrived at his destination, sighing with relief at the reprieve from the elements. He was greeted by a warm 'Oi, Harry!' from a forty-something year old man sitting behind a counter at the rear of the shop. Mr. Henessey - or Ziggy, as he preferred to be called, though Harry was sure his real name was George - was Harry's flowerchild, tree-hugging boss. A man who, even in this weather, wore a pair of probably hemp shorts and worn beige sandals. A man who was married to a woman named Starlight and had three kids: Freedom, Ocean, and Gary.

"Hey Ziggy," Harry replied, causing the older man to beam. It had taken some getting used to, calling his boss by his, alleged, first name after a lifetime of 'professor' and 'headmaster's, but he found he quite liked the sense of equality it suggested.

"The Gates' project is waiting upstairs for you my boy, just where you left it."

Harry nodded and smiled a small smile before taking Ziggy's leave and heading upstairs. The Gates' project was a large mahogany work-desk; the wood was dark, warm and one hundred percent pure mahogany. It felt smooth and welcoming under Harry's rough palms, and he could scarcely wait to get back to work. He loved carpentry, loved the feeling of the wood beneath his fingers, the hard, solidness of it, and the fact that Harry could manipulate its shape, it's design, turn it from a shapeless mass into something of beauty - vision and creation. He loved the anonymity of his craft, the idea that his customer had never met him face-to-face, would never meet him face to face, but appreciate his talent - because he did have talent - all the same.

He wasn't sure how long he worked that day, several hours at the least. Vaguely, he heard the bell ring once, then twice, signaling the arrival and departure of a customer. It wasn't just custom jobs they did here, there was a variety of premade furniture and this-n-thats downstairs where Ziggy reigned; however, Harry vastly preferred the more choosy patrons, the ones who demanded quality, and a personal touch. Twice, Ziggy entered Harry's field of awareness, first to remind the younger man to eat - to which Harry nodded, waiting until his boss was safely out of sight before casting a quick charm to fill his stomach with food. A roast beef sandwich, he believed - and the second to offer up a sample of a batch of brownies that Starlight had baked the night previous - normal brownies, he assured Harry -, which Harry eagerly accepted.

By the end of the day, having made quite a bit of headway, Harry felt confident that the desk would be done by the weekend, far earlier than both he and his customers had first expected. Feeling rather proud of himself, Harry yelled a quick goodbye to Ziggy on his way out the door, and once again plunged into the ice-like autumn air.

Immediately, his mood darkened. Around him the wind whipped and snapped at his exposed skin, playing with his hair like a feisty lover.

Feisty lover. Harry had business that night.

- - - - - - - - - -

The building was even less populated than usual, if that were even possible. Harry approached the front desk with an air of authority, causing the girl - boy, Harry corrected himself as the young man looked up - to acknowledge him immediately.

"How can I help you sir?" he asked, his voice smooth and low, expression vacant.

"Yes," Harry replied firmly. "I need a particular service-"

"-Certainly, we offer a variety of-"

"-A particular service," Harry repeated, with more force, "from a particular ... employee," he finished lamely, unsure of how to address a person of their ... profession.

"Ah, I see," the boy nodded, brows cinched in the center as though he was having trouble following the conversation. That's what you get for getting stoned on the job, Harry thought, bitterly. "Can you describe him or her for me?"

Harry paused, lips twisting in thought. He hadn't thought of this. How was he meant to describe his choice, when he hadn't the slightest how he looked. "I, err, no. He was - and he was a he - he was under Polyjuice," Harry fumbled. "I had him yesterday."

To this the boy nodded. "Not a problem sir." He took a long look at Harry, then switched his gaze to the screen of a computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Here he is, yes," he said slowly, brows still furrowed. Harry fought the impulse to forcefully smooth them out. "He seems to be occupied at the moment, but if you could wait a few minutes he'll be free shortly I'm sure. Just hand me your Polyjuice." Hand burrowed into his left pocket, Harry hissed as it came into contact with the pocket's other occupant, before retrieving the vial and handing it over.

"Very good sir," the boy said, gesturing to a series of neon plastic-wrapped monstrosities that could have passed for chairs. The moment Harry took a seat, the boy seemed to deflate, crossing his arms on the counter in front of him and resting his head on their crook, perhaps to escape the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting.

On the table in front of Harry was a pile of haphazardly stacked magazines. Most of them were dated, but none risque; in fact, they were so out of place that Harry had to stifle a laugh. Golfer's Digest, House & Garden, Hello!, The Book Collector - the type of things one would expect to find in the waiting room at the dentist's. Harry opted to stare at the wall.

Eventually, Harry became aware of a disturbance in the peripheral of his mind. Belatedly, he realized the boy at the counter was attempting to get his attention.

"Sir ... sir!" he repeated, noting Harry's sudden return to lucidity. He made a facial expression that Harry expected was meant to be a smile, and pointed at the door that certainly hadn't been there previously. "Your appointment's up." Nodding curtly, Harry rose from his seat and strode purposely down the hall, until he reached the end of the receptionist's eyesight, wherein he slowed his pace, feeling his heart inexplicably pick up. Through the thick fabric of his jacket, he could feel a steady pulse of heat, familiar and comforting, but thoroughly out of place. Usually, the object only reacted when Harry was practicing spells, being warm to an almost unbearable level only when he was going in for a kill. Shrugging this phenomena off as another of the item's mystery, Harry decided he had more important things to deal with presently. The foremost concerning the door now right in front of him.

With hands that were certainly not shaking, Harry eased the door open, stepping immediately into the familiar room. It seemed as though nothing had changed from the night prior, everything laid out exactly as he had remembered, including the exquisite body positioned on the bed. Harry's eyes traversed the smooth, pale skin, tracing the serpentine line of scar tissue decorating his midsection and fairly caressing the long, graceful arch of neck before coming to rest on a pair of thin pink lips. Lips which were currently quirked into an utterly Draco-esque smirk. Harry felt his own heat spike at the sight. Gray eyes were fixed upon him, and even they seemed to have a mischievous life to them that had been absent up until now. Harry fairly felt lightheaded, he wondered dumbly if the whore had gone off and done research into his role because really, now that Harry's mind was on that track, even the pose with which non-Draco sat screamed of - well - Draco.

It probably shouldn't have been so much of a turn-on. In school, Harry had never been attracted to - or even amused - by Draco's sense of superiority or scathing wit, but now, seeing this stranger with the familiar face twisted into the even more familiar expression, Harry was fairly ready to jump him then and there. In fact, he had already decided what their activity for that evening would be.

In three long strides Harry was in front of the bed, and non-Draco had risen to meet him. Standing eye to eye - they were nearly the same height, despite non-Draco's legs, which seemed to go on forever - Harry was confronted with a look of such knowing that he felt his blood boil. What did this whore know? So what if Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World was lusting after the son of a Death Eater, and getting his jollies off in a brothel? What right did anyone, him least of all, have to judge? Harry had saved them - all of them - but no one, no one had bothered to save him. Unable to look at that damned smirk any longer, Harry forced the whore to his knees with one firm push, set on putting that mouth to much better use.

Without preamble, Harry's trousers were unbuttoned and slid down to his ankles by deft fingers, and his aching manhood was enveloped in a far too professional mouth. Instantly, Harry was lost, knees braced and fingers threaded through fine silver hair, tugging and releasing. non-Draco's hands ran lovingly up and tone Harry's thick thighs, mimicking the rhythm set by his mouth, every two or three bobs, one would dart upwards and roll Harry's balls, or slip under his shirt to tweak a nipple. The scent of male arousal hung heavy in the air, and Harry hadn't the need to look down to know that non-Draco was getting off on this.

Though not as much as Harry himself. With slow, steady movements, using non-Draco's hair as reigns, he began to fuck the whore's mouth, grunts and groans dropping from his lips in tandem with the wet sucking and choking noises rising from the blond's. It felt so good, too good, a skilled little tongue darting out and in and up and down, hands wandering and clutching and kneading, and too soon Harry felt a telltale tingling low in his belly.

It took all of Harry's resolve and willpower to pull non-Draco to his feet, then push him backwards until he was sprawled on the bed. Then, Harry took a moment to look, because really - how could he not? Pale skin, flushed from exertion, a lack of oxygen, and no small amount of arousal, with a backdrop of sheets that were probably navy, but could have been almost any colour on the darker end of the spectrum. White-blond hair was tousled and sweat slicked, long in the front and shorter in the back, non-Draco's fringe lay messily about his face, a single strand caught on moist pink lips that were no longer quite so thin. He was the perfect picture of debauchery, and oh, but Harry wanted to debauch.

With all the grace of a predator, Harry followed non-Draco, settling his body over the whore's, kicking his trousers and pants off the remainder of the way as he did so. Harry's broader pelvis bracketing the whore's more slender hips. Resting the majority of his weight on his forearms, Harry leant forward to capture those same lips in a chaste kiss. Rising, Harry pressed non-Draco back into the bed with a palm on his sternum when he tried to follow.

Harry shifted himself around, careful not to land an elbow or knee anywhere valuable, stopping when he was positioned on his hands and knees over non-Draco, his face hovering over the whore's slender cock, while his own bobbed heavily over the blond's face. Harry groaned, a series of blunt fingernails ran teasingly over the taut skin of his abdomen, and non-Draco echoed the noise as Harry's warm exhalation puffed against his dripping head.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to last too long with such a responsive body underneath him, Harry dropped his head, taking non-Draco down to the root, causing the blond to buck his hips and fairly howl with pleasure. Tears sprung to Harry's eyes as his airway was blocked then cleared, blocked then cleared, until non-Draco had calmed himself, and only then did he continue, resting himself once more on his elbows and sliding his hands under non-Draco's hips to cradle his arse. Impatiently, he thrust his own hips downward, feeling his cockhead brush against a smooth cheek until non-Draco caught the hint.

Then, there was nothing.

Nothing save for white-hot pleasure. Subconsciously, Harry was quite proud of himself for keeping up his own performance while surrounded by such wet, hot stimulus - damn, but that boy knew how to suck. For a time the only noise in the room were twin sets of groans, moans and the rare expletive. non-Draco began to whimper, making weak thrusting motions with his hips, and Harry knew the whore was reaching his end. Softly, he ran one big palm from non-Draco's arsecheek to his crack, and began massaging the tight ring of muscle he found there. non-Draco's whines increased in pitch and volume, vibrating Harry's cockhead and urging him forward - this was going to be over soon, and he'd be damned if he didn't push non-Draco over the edge with him. The fingers of his left hand still circling the blond's hole, his right came up to cradle his balls, running through the coarse blond hair and tracing over a small scar a centimeter or so off-center. The three remaining brain cells of Harry's that weren't bogged down with pleasure rallied that they'd never seen that scar before, but the rest of Harry's consciousness couldn't have cared less, concerned only with the rapidly building pressure that soon came rushing through his body in a torrent.

Letting non-Draco's cock slip free from his mouth, Harry cried out - a loud wordless shout - and reflexively flexed his hand, pressing two fingers into non-Draco's arse. This little bit of pain tinted pleasure seemed to be all the blond needed, as he was then moaning and arching off the bed as his own release blackened the edges of his vision.

Feeling sated and boneless, Harry collapsed onto his side, breathing deeply. non-Draco seemed to be in much the same state, though Harry felt chilly fingers softly stroking his calf, bloody talented fingers running through the sparse hair. Harry too began making abstract figures on non-Draco's body, tracing vaguely through the rapidly cooling pool of cum on the blond's belly. This felt good. It had been a long time since Harry had enjoyed a proper post-orgasmic haze, and -

- and this was no proper post-orgasmic haze. Harry was up like a shot, apparently starling non-Draco, who then scowled at him from his place, half propped up on the bed. Without making eye contact, Harry pulled his trousers and pants back on and fairly jogged to the door.

Halfway through, Harry was stopped once more. Scattered impressions of deja vu swept through his mind, but nonetheless the brunet turned toward the whispered, 'Harry'. This time, however, the whore was looking at him in that infuriatingly knowing way, and he barely managed to gather his wits in time to catch the object that had been thrown at him. The door clicked shut, blocking Harry's view of anything other than poorly maintained wood, blocking Harry's mind from anything but the solid weight in his hands. He looked down, it was the vial of Polyjuice, the same one from that evening, except - except. It was full.

Eyes wide and panicked, Harry looked up. The door was gone.